


Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.9

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"These are the times that try men's souls."<br/>One year post 513</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.9

                                                                   :                    
  
  
  
                       
  
        Sofia observed the interaction with interest. Such stilted and repressed dialogue, whether due to nerves or lust, made it anyone’s guess what the result would be. Despite the awkward strain, their closeness generated enough heat to raise the temperature in the gallery from temperate to torrid. They would explode like firecrackers if a match were lit.  
  
        After standing quietly during the pathetic attempt at conversation, she placed a feather-light hand on Justin’s arm. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”  
  
        He looked at her with a confused glaze, blinking twice to clear the wax paper fog from his eyes. “Oh, sorry! I was—”  
  
       “Distracted.” Her lips twitched at his discomfort. “Understandably so.”

                                                                                                               * * *  
  
        An embarrassed warmth worked its way from Justin's hair to his toes. Her comment left him feeling exposed, without any privacy. Like the great and powerful Oz without his curtain or Rage without his mask, he mused. He hated that he blushed so easily. Hated it even more when the flush was about Brian. Hard to keep secrets when an involuntary reflex betrayed you.  
  
        He wasn’t sure about this first step. Her “maiden voyage” into his personal life could unleash a Pandora’s box of complications. He couldn’t deny the appeal of talking to someone who wasn’t biased by history. But objectivity could also be a curse, at least about Brian. Because to truly understand him—his thoughts, actions, motives—you had to know the past. Otherwise, opinions would skate across ice without scratching the surface. And he didn’t have the emotional fortitude for long-winded explanations that would inevitably trigger painful memories and slice open old wounds.  
  
        Determined to sound unruffled, he forced a casualness into his voice that he hoped wouldn’t give his jitters away. He made the introduction as if he were introducing her to a teacher or a coworker—or a random person. “Sofia, Brian. Brian, Sofia.”  
  
        Normally, he would have missed their exchanged glance or ignored it. But not tonight. With his five senses screaming code red, the heightened sensitivity fine-tuned his attention to detail. “What? What’s the matter?”  
  
        Sofia’s placating 'Nothing, mon chéri, nothing at all' annoyed the shit out of him, but Brian’s cologne unsettled him too much to figure it out. Hyper-aware of the few inches between them, he shivered in his tight-as-a-drumhead skin when fingertips brushed the nape of his neck.

                                                                                                             * * *  
  
        Sofia turned to Brian with an amused grin and held out a well-manicured hand. “Sofia LaFontaine. A pleasure to meet you.”  
  
        She evaluated him with a calculating eye. With a face created to charm and to sin, he was one of the finest male specimens she had ever come across. But she surmised his impeccably crafted bella figura was nothing more than camouflage, a disguise to lull adversaries into false security. The impression of being inspected and weighed confirmed her suspicions. She had met men like him before. They were formidable opponents who showed no fear, no anger, no impatience. Beneath the public persona, however, lurked a hidden flame.  
  
        An aura of kinetic energy pulsed around him. Swirling like a tornado, it swooped up anyone in its path and left you breathless when it touched down. He seemed to look through people, as if they were not worthy of his consideration, mere roadblocks to his ultimate objective, Justin. She already knew him quite well.  
  
                                                                                                             * * *  
  
        Brian’s initial glance at Sofia was of aloof detachment. He gave a fleeting thought to the polished formality reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn, but his curiosity was overridden by a pressing need to decide if she was friend or foe. If the former, he’d keep his guard up and watch what he said but would be charming and disarming while doing so. If the latter, he’d keep his guard up but would be selective with information and choose his words with care. It was a necessary judgment, in his opinion, for a successful outcome to his plan. If he had one. He didn’t have a master plan to fix things with Justin. Not that it would have mattered anyway. Nothing ever went “according to plan” with Justin.  
  
        His lashes half-curtained his eyes as they sharpened from polite disinterest to frank appraisal. Regardless of her allegiance, one fact was certain. Clad in a beaded chocolate Valentino suit and satin Jimmy Choo heels, she was stunning. If he batted for the other team, she’d be at the top of his list.  
  
        He rose to the occasion with his usual aplomb. Focusing on the porcelain face with its defined cheekbones, he flashed a Kinneyesque smile and extended his hand. “Brian Kinney. Enchanté.”  
  
       “From what I’ve heard, the pleasure should be mine, Mr. Kinney.” Sofia shot Justin a sly look.  
  
       “Really? Then you have me at a disadvantage, Ms. LaFontaine, because I haven’t heard anything about you.” He raised a brow in the same direction.  
  
        Like a fan at a tennis match, Justin swiveled his head back and forth. The well-aimed barbs hit their mark. Whether real or imagined, he felt ambushed and didn’t appreciate being made to feel like a scolded child. On the verge of delivering a few choice words of his own, he was plucked from the edge of a major queen-out by an exuberant young man no older than twenty-five. Clad in a black turtleneck and tight black jeans, he pulled him into an enthusiastic hug with a not-so-chaste kiss before giving Sofia a genteel peck on each cheek.

                                                                                                            * * *  
  
        Trapped in a third wheel outsider moment, the ease of the greeting rubbed Brian the wrong way. He tried to convince himself, without conviction, it was platonic and blamed an over-active imagination for the worried flurries. The mind could play tricks, make you see what was not or not see what was. But the gatecrasher in his non-existent plan appeared to be disturbingly more than a friend. Even more disturbing was Justin’s delight at seeing him and most disturbing was their comfortability with each other. An instant twinge of green bile sent a dull chill through his body. So unexpected. So precise. His control almost deserted him.  
  
        Blank as an empty canvas, he ordered a double Beam from a waiter and knocked back the amber liquid in one stinging swallow. The burn still in his throat, he spoke in his usual way—with an undercurrent of snark. “Where are your country club manners, Sunshine? You’re off your game tonight.”  
  
        Justin enunciated his words with exaggerated precision, coated each one with a layer of oily sarcasm. “Brian, this is Chad Hansford. Chad, this is Brian Kinney.” He speared him with a razor-like glare. “Is that Emily Post enough for your sensibilities?”  
  
        He dismissed the glare as inconsequential and brushed aside the question as insignificant. This wasn’t the time or place to indulge in a war of words that could irreparably damage the fragile thread between them. His immediate concern was the possible flicker of recognition when Justin said his name. Did the disgustingly cheerful Mr. Hansford know about him, about them? The situation was so outside the scope of what he had expected tonight, he couldn’t wrap his head around the turn of events.  
  
        He addressed the unwelcome newcomer with a satiric glitter in his eyes. “So, Chad, how’s it han—” He didn’t finish. Cut short by blue daggers of doom, he switched gears with the proficiency of a race car driver and infused an uncharacteristic friendliness in his voice. “Nice to meet you, _Chad._ ”  
  
        After a brief “nice to meet you, too” handshake, the bespectacled buzz-cut asked, “Uh, do you mind if I steal Justin for a few minutes? Charles Brentworth is here.” He gestured excitedly toward a tall, gaunt figure with salt and pepper hair slicked in a ponytail. “He’s a big time collector, a very wealthy collector and always on the lookout for new artists, but he never attends openings.”  
  
        Brian followed his line of sight and wondered with mock petulance why he never received the fashion memo that solid black was the men’s de rigueur color for the evening. Prompted by the same narcissistic compulsion that fueled his infantile bet with Brandon, the master of annihilating retorts needled, “Hey, by all means, steal away. I don’t own him. He’s a free man.”  
  
       “Do you always steamroll over people?”  
  
        “You don't mince words, do you?” Without taking his eyes off the retreating men, his answer was as direct as her question. “I give them a chance to get out of my way. If they don’t, that’s their problem.”  
  
        He wanted to leave. The last thing on his agenda was polite conversation, but instinct told him more could be gained from talking than not. He opened the file drawer in his brain labeled “Inquiring Minds Want to Know” and pulled out a folder. “Is New York your home, Ms. LaFontaine?”  
  
       “Please, let’s dispense with the formalities, Mr. Kinney. It’s Sofia.”  
  
        His expression changed from blatantly guarded to marginally pleasant. “Brian.”  
  
       “To answer your question, I live in New York at the moment, but I’ve lived in many cities. However, I assume, perhaps incorrectly, that you were speaking about my birth country? I was born in France.”  
  
       “I thought I heard a slight accent.”  
  
        She cocked her head. “I’m impressed. You’re one of the very few who have.”  
  
       “I make it a point to notice details, to notice _people_. That’s why I’m good at what I do.”  
  
       “Have you seen the work upstairs?”  
  
       “No,” he admitted. “I haven’t even seen this floor.”  
  
        She sidled toward him and slipped her arm through his. “Then allow me to be your tour guide since our favorite celebrity is otherwise engaged.” She nodded toward the other side of the room.  
  
        He followed her gaze and bit his lip. With a beaming Chad at his side, Justin's enthusiasm held Charles Brentworth captive.   
  
        She had an instant pang of sympathy. “He’s only a friend.”  
  
        He shrugged. “Not my concern. He can do what he wants. He’s not married.”  
  
       “True,” she agreed. “And although it’s not your concern, he is just a friend.” She steered him toward the stairs. “Now, let me show you around.”  
  
        During their stroll, he paused in front of each piece with a faraway look in his eyes. Filled with melancholia, he lost himself in the colors and textures that breathed life into them. “Full of surprises,” he murmured.  
  
                                                _“I could paint you in the dark, cause I’ve studied you with hunger, like a work of art.” Indigo Girls_  
  
        A frown creased his forehead. He overflowed with verbal chaos, and as if to relieve the pressure, words tumbled from his mouth without warning and out of context. “He looks tired.”  
  
       “There was a lot of stress leading up to this show.”  
  
       “That’s it?”  
  
       “Isn’t that enough?”  
  
        He shook his head. “Not even close. I know him.” When she didn't immediately comment, he changed tactics. “If we’re going to be on a first name basis, _Sofia_ , you should explain.”  
  
       “He’s had more on his mind than painting. He’s been preoccupied, waiting to see which way the wind was going to blow or more accurately, how hard it was going to blow.”  
  
        For the first time that evening, an honest grin tugged at his mouth. “I have any number of choice comments to your riddle, but given the occasion and the company, none are socially acceptable.”  
  
       “I’m certain I don’t have to spell it out for you, Brian, since you make it a point to notice details and people.”  
  
        He hated the word touché. Concession meant defeat. Further down the psychological ladder, it meant giving up control. To let anyone get the better of him was an irritation worse than jock itch. But if there was ever a moment when it was appropriate, this was it. _Touché, Ms. LaFontaine._  
  
        He couldn’t resist a jab. “Are you his keeper?”  
  
       “No, just somebody who cares, who’s looking out for him.”  
  
       “He already has a fag hag back in the Pitts.”  
  
       “But he’s not in Pittsburgh, is he?”

                                                                                                         * * *

        The only clue Sofia had struck a nerve was a slight tightening of his jaw. She imagined it took all of his willpower to maintain his rigid demeanor. _Hidden flame, indeed._ Tonight should have been the night for clearing the air, but with so many emotions and so many ghosts clouding their vision, she had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen.  
  
                                                                                                         * * *  
**The hardest part isn’t accepting what you’ve done. It’s wondering what would have been had you done it differently.**  
  
        When the murmured voices morphed into noisy static and the walls started closing in, Brian made a hasty exit. He stood outside the gallery and lit a cigarette, refusing to dwell on why his back was stiff as a board and his muscles hard as cement bricks. With the arrival of dusk, the undecided blue-black sky had stoked the street lamps to life and dropped the temperature to an unseasonal autumn chill. He shifted his weight, tightening his body against a sudden gust of wind.  
  
                                                                                  
  
        Transfixed by the vanishing trail of his smoke rings, he had the distinct feeling of being watched. He raised his head, rubbing his neck as if kneading a crick. Guided by unfailing intuition, he returned the stare of a caramel-skinned delicacy across the street. Uncharacteristically bothered by the intrusion, he wanted to laugh with maniacal glee at the irony. The unfeeling concrete under his feet was a cold reminder of the other life he once lived, the one where he would have taken this hot ass home, fucked him, and forgotten he ever wanted him. History or alternate universe? He hadn’t figured it out.  
  
                                               _“Blamin’ it all on the nights on Broadway, singin’ them love songs, straight to the heart songs.” ©Gibb_  
  
        Why the fuck was he here? Did he have some deep-seated existential need to torture himself? Despite good intentions, it was a stupid idea that only fostered unrealistic hope. With everything now blown to shit, why the fuck was he _still_ here? He should leave. For good. Forever. If he stayed one minute longer—  
  
        In the middle of a deep inhale, a door hinge squeaked. He didn’t bother turning around. Tick, tick, tick. Time’s up. The collision of past and present left him vaguely discomfited.  
  
                                                          _“Like the beat, beat, beat of the tom-tom when the jungle shadows fall,_  
                                                           _Like the tick, tick, tock of the stately clock as it stands against the wall.” ©C.Porter_

                                                                                                    * * *  
        Justin approached with cautious footsteps. Arms folded across his chest, he closed the distance until both were illuminated in the wide beam of light. “Not that I’m not flattered you’re here,” he began calmly, nails creating half moons in his palms, “but I am curious. Why?”  
  
        He had been restless during his long-winded but advantageous discussion with Charles Brentworth. His skin itched with a premonition that his world was about to be ripped wide open. When Chad touched his hand with an inquiring look, he mouthed an apology, willing his mind back to the subject. But his attention drifted and so did his eyes. When he couldn’t find Brian, unbridled fear sucked the air out of his lungs. Shaking from the effort to stay calm, he politely excused himself and sought out Sofia, asking if she knew where he was.  
  
        Brian lifted a shoulder. “Your watchdogs in the Pitts would have castrated my remaining ball, and I’ve grown rather attached to it. Besides, I was—“  
  
       “In New York on business. Yeah, I heard the message.” FEINT. He reached for the cigarette, took a deep drag, and handed it back, an arc of electricity surging through his arm at the brush of skin.  
  
       “Did you? Funny, I must have missed yours.” JAB.  
  
       “My phone was off, Brian. Unlike you, I don’t keep it on all the time.” HOOK.  
  
       “I forgot about your very selective memory. I seem to remember certain times when I did turn it off.” UPPERCUT  
  
        But he refused to be derailed. “And I forgot about your very convenient memory. Besides, it’s not as if I was expecting you to call.” COUNTERPUNCH  
  
        SCORE: 0-0  
  
       “Ahh, right.”  
  
       “That’s all you can say?”  
  
       “What else is there?”

 **Silence propagates itself, and the longer talk has been suspended, the more difficult it is to find anything to say.** _S.Johnson_  
  
        He shook his head in defeat. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Loquaciousness has never been your strong point.” But simmering anger gave him the strength to challenge with, “So now what? Since you’ve obviously decided our lives are better without each other, you think by showing up here, I’ll forget that I haven’t heard from you in months, that you can change everything?”  
  
       “Who said that’s what I was trying to do?” Brian asked, his voice clipped and concise as he flagged a cab.  
  
        His eyes widened. The discouraging brittleness slashed through him like a jarring stroke of black on an idyllic pastel. Having been pricked and stung by Brian in the past, even in circumstances of his own making, he couldn’t imagine anything cutting sharper or deeper. He was wrong. He paused long enough to telegraph a gaze filled with regret and sadness. “Right. Of course you weren’t.”  
  
                                                     _“Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry?” ©O’Dowd/Moss_  
  
        When a taxi screeched to the curb, Brian tossed his cigarette in the gutter and crushed the butt with a vicious grind. Before getting in, he said. “You did it. You’re on your way.”  
  
       “Yeah, well, we’ll see.” He swallowed against a giant tennis ball and nodded at the building. “Listen, I’d better get back. Thanks. I mean it. Thanks for coming. It was great seeing you.” He almost added “later” but there would be no later. He shuffled toward the door and didn’t turn to wave goodbye or give the yellow car another look. He had taken only two steps when tires squealed and a horn blared. He whirled around, certain he would see a street strewn with glass and blood.

         Leaning out the passenger window, Brian shouted, “Justin! I’m going to McSorley’s.” The driver gunned the engine and sped off.

         In a daze, he craned his neck to keep the tail lights in view until they disappeared. His relief at the absence of mangled metal didn’t last, though, with the albatross of fear hanging around his neck. If they imploded now, it would be the end. But the gloomy thought couldn't dim his resolve. Because Brian told him he still cared—by yelling out a taxi window. They had been through too much to give up. He had to believe their imperfect selves would somehow muddle through and emerge triumphant in their imperfect glory. He adamantly refused to accept any other solution.  
  
        He checked the time, then looked down in surprise. He couldn’t remember when he last heard that growl. It had been so long. He wondered if there were any polenta cups left.  
  
                                                                         _“They will not destroy us. We will be victorious.” ©M.Bellamy_  
  
                                                                                                      END OF PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Definitions and links for certain terms in this chapter:  
> bella figure: http://www.eyeitalia.com/la-bella-figura-italy/  
> hanging chad: http://news.yahoo.com/bush-v-gore-hanging-chad-20101208-135500-986.html  
> McSorley's: http://www.mcsorleysnewyork.com/


End file.
